


Death to the False Emperor!

by Theragos



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-04 01:26:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14009166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theragos/pseuds/Theragos
Summary: This is an awful draft, born within around 2 hours of subway travel. But if I don't do it, I'll never get good at writing, right?The story tells you about the adventures of a Chaos Space Marines warband.





	1. Prologue - Death to the False Emperor!

During his service in the Chapter, Tyrvar had experienced all kinds of pain. Bruises, broken bones, internal bleeding, even a severed limb once. He was burnt, shot, stabbed, cut, beaten and bitten by all kinds of enemies. Still, from his point of view, nothing could compare to the cold, unforgiving sensation of being petrified by the void.

Those were his last thoughts before he was quickly, and, one might even say, mercifully, torn from existence by the decompression. Decompression, that came right after an autocannon round blew a considerable part of his abdomen into a cloud of armor shards and quickly freezing gore. Red crystals glittered in the dull light of a dying star, as Tyrvar began his final journey, gently pulled by the gravity well of the sun, without making a single sound. 

\---------

A dry laugh scratched through the vox bead, heavily saturated by static. Covered by distortion caused by the proximity to the huge sphere of superheated gas, seven members of the warband lay in wait, mag-locked to the outer hull of an immobilized Imperial Cruiser, waiting patiently for the idiotic representatives of the Corpse-God to walk blindly into their jaws. 

"It's a sha... That he flew aw...y, we could ... His arms and armor," - followed the cackle. Koldaros didn't respond to the old veteran. He was of the Sons of Avarice, after all. It was his duty to salvage the dead after the conclusion of each engagement. More than that, it was his idea to be stuck here, in space, glued unreliably to the side of some stupid Imperial can, that was stuffed to the brim with angry loyalists, returning from a successful campaign.

At first, the idea seemed reasonable. The crew should mostly be wounded, the ship with several systems damaged, ammo and fuel running low, and the fighters on board close to useless, but possibly carrying either trophies or vital data. Xalar was hoping for the mix of both because the old fool paid too much attention to the indiscriminate and constant yapping of Seer Gorlanthor. And the Seer was a reckless fool who forgot to keep his power in check once and was paying the price with his gradually fading sanity ever since.

He told them during the Council that there were rumors of several Legiones Astartes relics which were uncovered during the course of an Imperial campaign, and now they were being transported to a fortified Forge World for repair and study. He said that it was their chance to earn back something more than tanks or cannons or whatever it was on that ship. He said that they could finally begin to reclaim their long lost honor amongst the Legions. The old bastard always had a way with words.

The effect was lost almost instantly on Koldaros. He knew all too well what followed every "reclaiming of honor" and "restoring of dignity". Dirt, blood, close quarters combat devolving into melee due to the lack of ammunition, misinterpretation of orders and many other exciting prospects were coming right after the sweet speeches of self-appointed leaders. 

It's not that he was against the strife, quite the opposite. His hands were itching to grip someone's throat for a while now, and he was glad to get any chance to vent that growing anger with little to no repercussions. What was disturbing him is the path, that Xalar was choosing lately. His attempts were too erratic, too bold and usually brought half of the expected result at best. 

Until today. This, Koldaros thought, this was all-or-nothing operation. And he had nothing to do with the operation that had even a slice of an opportunity given to that "nothing" part.

Nevertheless, here he was, along with other members of the warband, in the middle of nowhere, getting roasted by radiation and heat for a very doubtful cause. He had little choice though - any open move, especially a hostile one, not backed up by support from most of the brothers-in-arms, was doomed to failure. There were traditions to follow, which proved to be a saving grace for that bleak ghost of hierarchy and discipline, that was representing the structure of their flock.

Many said that the Legions of the old were dead on both sides. It wasn't quite true, but it was not completely false either, suspended somewhere between those statements. Changed forever by the events of the Heresy, most of the First Founding was shattered into ever-interchanging and rapidly shifting warbands, fleets or chapters. Some of them still resembled armies that followed their Primarchs, and still upheld the Oaths of old, coming to aid their brethren and possibly not trying to betray them at the first available opportunity.

Their rag-tag group of various Legionnaires and more recent Astartes outcasts had decent chances of performing at least partially coordinated assault, with only a few of the participants ignoring orders and descending into unreasonable violence, executed for the sake of violence. 

"Contacts on eleven, kinsmen. Hold fire until they are at the optimal range," - declared a more comprehensive, and a very reserved tone of the Ninety-Two. A recent addition to the squad, this Alpha Legion marine shared no information about his past, not even a name. He has been a ninety-second member of the warband upon arrival, so the moniker was fitting.

Koldaros noticed, and not for the first time, that Ninety-Two was always quick to catch the sight of the enemy. He wondered, if it was due to some quirk granted by exposure to Immaterium, or if his gear was just way better than everything he ever used. Both were equally possible, but if it was the latter, it could be taken away, which he carefully noted in the back of his mind.

Refocusing on a more immediate goal, he brought up the storm bolted at that very moment, when the machine spirit of his armor outlined the first three figures in his helm's visor. Two point four seconds later than Ninety-Two's, thought Koldaros, unable to put away his envy entirely. That could mean the difference between dragging his life further and having his soul devoured by the Unborn. 

Their loyalist counterparts were approaching with extreme caution, coursing between elements of cover at a measured pace. The surface of the vessel was uneven, covered by bent armor plates and crevices of the ship's hull, which allowed even such clear targets as Astartes to occasionally get out of sight completely. 

A long, low growl of frustration rumbled in his ear. "Come on, you know we're here, just charge and avenge your idiotic friend, - a sharp snarl filling the pause, - And by the Gods, be quick about it!". A response came in a moment, preceded by a wet, gurgling laugh. " What's the fuss? We have the time advantage. Aren't you feeling comfortable, paperskin?" - a drowning voice of Yaran sounded almost relaxed. Koldaros was more than sure that the Death Guard was literally enjoying the radiation that was searing his mutated left arm. "Shut up, maggothead! I'll cut off your rotting tongue as soon as we're done with the dirtbloods!" - straining through the veil of constant bloodlust, Izar was never the best of talkers. His fighting skills, on the other hand, had earned him many favors, both from his masters, and his chosen deity, the Lord of Skulls. The exchange was put to rest by the enforcer in the group, Xalar's second-in-command. 

"Izar, not everyone lost an idea of tactical warfare. Yaran, focus your pus-filled eyeballs on the enemy. Five seconds notice, brethren. Let them taste our hate!" - inspired, as always, Calaestas was the most loyal lieutenant you could get on this side of the Maelstrom. Pious, idealistic and reliant on orders, he was a perfect cog and had challenged Xalar just once, when they were still equals. A Word Bearer to the core. 

Then, six throats screamed the same words at once, knowing that they are the only ones to hear it.

"Death to the False Emperor!"


	2. Chapter 1 - The Taking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, I'm trying to develop the story further and give more depth to the characters. 40k Style, of course.

Not everything went according to plan, but was there ever a time when it did? The key to success in the assault was to stick with the main purpose of the engagement, adapting to the minute details. And so they did. 

Without any substantial amount of data on the enemy, loyalist forces were fighting an uphill battle. Kept blind by the nature of the location, and the effort of the slave crew on the Liar's Pride, they couldn't devise a proper defense plan, let alone a counterattack. The effect of an already hostile environment was amplified by the faithful, who were laboring meat from their hands, trying to keep sensor dampeners at maximum capacity. Koldaros envied them. Blessed is the mind, too small for doubt, as the followers of the Corpse-God were used to preach nowadays. What an irony. 

The communication dampener was a double-edged blade. While efficiently disabling the prey, it left the warband with just local vox frequencies at their disposal. As a result, no fire support, no fighters or bombers, no updated orders. Even if the Pride had to suddenly retreat, the warriors undertaking the action wouldn't know, left alone, deep in the enemy territory. Centuries back it would be otherwise, but the machine spirit of the system corroded, grew angrier and more unstable. Times, and a subtle touch of the Immaterium bend even the constants, set by the followers of the Omnissiah. 

The circumstances forced the enemy to divide their contingent into small groups to scout the outer hull of the ship, making them a vulnerable target. And while individually they fought with all of the determination and fierce savagery of Astartes, their valiant effort could only postpone the encroaching doom. Unless something went horribly wrong, of course. 

Koldaros kneeled behind a giant set of cables, that ran along the side of the spaceship, and up into the engine deck. Five loyalists dug in behind the wreck of a gun turret, creating an ad-hoc defensive perimeter. They were trying to win time, allowing their brothers to rally at their position. That would be bad for the numbers game, and eventually, Koldaros and his fellow men would have to retreat and regroup with other segments of their warband. Which, in turn, would replace their blitz with a war of attrition. Nobody had time for that, especially not them. 

"Xalar, we need to push forward! We can't waste time!" - screamed Izar, who was currently sitting with his back to one of the bent plasteel sheets. "They can't have ammunition to fight forever!" - Xalar, who had just moved to a few steps closer to the turret and was now being showered with bolt rounds, was panting heavily.   
"If we stay for more than another minute, we'll get nothing but our demise!" - even Calaestas was siding with the brawler. 

Just when Koldaros was planning another skip from cover to cover, the world began slowly moving around him. The vessel has barely twitched, but it was enough to be noticed by all participants of the firefight. As always, Ninety-Two was the first to raise awareness. "Brace, they fixed the engine!" - a hint of surprise palpable in his tone. 

A slight twitch quickly escalated to a violent pull, as the vessel gained momentum, turning away from the sun. Calaestas rose to his full height and charged the foe, capitalizing on the moment of disarray. "With me! Feed them their thin-blooded tongues!" - his teeth were grinding with barely suppressed rage. "UNBELIEVERS! MUST! DIE!!!" - Izar's voice boomed in the ear of Koldaros, as he joined the frenzied charge. 

As one, the band of forsaken began swiftly closing in on the Imperium's finest. A marine in silver and blue armor of the Star Lords, rose to send a few bolts into incoming Word Bearers but was quickly torn to shreds by simultaneous hits from storm bolter and an autocannon. There was another one, rising at the same moment right next to the first. He managed to put three shots into Izar, blowing away a few chunks from his breastplate and a helmet decoration, before getting his head caved in by a wickedly shaped power mace. 

Swiftly adapting to the change of perspective, two more loyalists concentrated their efforts to put down Yaran, who was moving in their direction at a steady pace, snapping single shots from his plasma pistol in an attempt to pin them down. Two bolters opened up in response, tearing his torso open. His guts slithered out like a disturbed nest of festering snakes, floating in zero gravity. He didn't slow down one bit, his shots finding their mark and melting through the chest of the left marine, while the right had his legs taken from under him. Ninety-Two's autocannon round punched clean through one of his knees. All along the carnage was accompanied by the hysterical wet laughter of the bloated warrior broadcasted through the vox. 

The last marine charged Izar with a power sword, deflecting the first swing of the berserker, and taking his arm at the elbow with a riposte. In return, Izar delivered two crushing punches right into the visor of the marine's helmet, cracking the visor and staggering him. Calaestas flanked the reeling warrior, viciously puncturing his torso with a combat blade. It stuck in the body of the foe, who managed to catch the arm of the leggionaire, pulling him in and trying to decapitate him with a defiant swing. Calaestas ducked the blow, released the handle of the knife and rammed his head into the gilded Aquila Imperialis, so proudly displayed on the chest of the space marine. The force of the impact pushed him back half a step, as decompression and injuries took their toll. Then, a single shot from a storm bolter shattered his faceplate, granting his soul to the hungry Gods.


End file.
